Checklists

Checklists
Checklists - Audio/Visual 

When they came to a place called the Skull, the soldiers crucified Jesus and the criminals—one on his right and the other on his left. Jesus said, “Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:33-34)

Here's a checklist of three things you should know about checklists: (1) they're everywhere – on TV, in the movies and on the radio; (2) they're getting longer than ever, like "100 Travel Bucket List Ideas for 2020;” and (3) there's a checklist for just about everything; it’s become an obsession. For instance, in Men’s Health, a monthly magazine, there are at least a dozen checklists and some 2,000 tips in every issue. And checklists are perfect for guys with short attention spans because it tells you right up front how long it's probably going to take you to read the checklist. If it says, “Five things,” you're like, “Alright, I've got a couple of minutes; I'll read that.” But if it's a hundred things, or a thousand-and-one things, then it’s “Wow. I’ll need a Fresca and a tuna sandwich for that one; I think I’ll take a pass.”

A colleague relayed a story about a woman who nearly missed a flight that he was on. In fact, he thought he had the row all to himself until he looked up and saw her puffing down the aisle, dragging two large bags. “I hate to fly,” she blurted out as she fell into her seat. “I put off getting here as long as I could.” He described her as tall, young, blonde, tan, and talkative. Her jeans were fashionably ripped at the knees, and her black boots boasted silver tips. She really hated to fly, he learned, and the way she coped was by talking. “I’m going home to see my dad. He’ll really be amazed at my tan. He thinks I’m crazy living in California — me being single and all. I’ve got this new boyfriend, he’s from Lebanon. He travels a lot though, so I only see him on weekends, which is fine with me because that gives me the house to myself which isn’t far from the beach and .…”

My friend has learned what to do when a friendly, attractive woman sits beside him. He says that as soon as possible he reveals his profession and marital status. It keeps them both out of trouble. “My wife hates to fly, too,” he jumped in when she took a breath, “so I know how you feel. And since I’m a minister, I know a section of the Bible you might like to read as we take off.” So, he pulled his Bible out of his briefcase and opened it to the 23^rd Psalm. And for the first time she was quiet. “The Lord is my shepherd,” she read the words then looked up with a broad smile. “I remember this,” she said as the plane was taking off. “I read it when I was young.” She turned to read some more.

The next time she looked up, however, there was a tear in her eye. “It’s been a long time. A long, long time.” She explained how she had once believed. She became a Christian when she was young, but she couldn’t remember the last time she’d been to church. They talked for awhile about faith and second chances and then my friend asked her, “Do you believe in heaven?” “Yeah,” she replied. “Do you think you’ll go there?” he said. She looked away for a minute and then turned and answered confidently, “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be in heaven.” “How do you know?” “How do I know I’m going to heaven?” She grew quiet as she formulated her response, which was her checklist. “Well, I’m basically good. I don’t do drugs. I exercise. I’m dependable at work and,” she counted each achievement on a finger, “I made my boyfriend get tested for AIDS.”

Ta-Da! That was her checklist. Her qualifications. By her way of thinking, heaven could be earned by good health habits and safe sex. Her line of logic was simple — I keep the checklist on this side, and I get the place on the other side. But before we’re too hard on her, let me ask you: What’s on your checklist? Most of us are like the girl on the plane, and most of us think we’re “basically good;” that we’re decent, hardworking folk and we have a checklist to prove it. Maybe ours doesn’t include exercise or AIDS, but we have a checklist. “I pay my bills.” “I love my spouse and kids.” “I’m better than Hitler.” “I’m basically good.” Most of us have a checklist, and there’s a purpose for the checklist: to prove we’re good. But there’s a problem with the checklist: none of us are good enough.

Paul made this point when he placed two short-fused sticks of dynamite in the third chapter of his letter to the church in Rome. The first is in verse 10: “There is no one who always does what is right,” he wrote, “not even one.” No one. Not you. Not me. Not anyone. The second explosion occurs thirteen verses later in verse 23: “All have sinned and are not good enough for God’s glory.” Boom. So much for checklists. So much for being “basically good.” But then how do we go to heaven? If no one is good, if no checklist is sufficient, if no achievements are adequate, how can a person be saved? No question is more crucial. And to hear Jesus answer it, consider the last encounter he had before he gave up his spirit – an encounter with a criminal.

Now, some would like to think that the two thieves in the story were victims. Undeserving of punishment. Good men who got a bad rap. Patriots dying a martyr’s death. But that’s not the case. Matthew dispels that notion with just one word in one verse: “the robbers who were being crucified beside Jesus also insulted him.” (Matt. 27:44) Tragedy has a way of revealing a person’s character. And the tragedy of this crucifixion reveals that these two thieves had none. They slander Jesus with their last breath. Can you hear them? Voices, husky with pain, sneer at the Messiah. “Some king of the Jews you are.” “Life is pretty tough on Messiahs these days, eh?” “How about a little miracle, Galilean?” “Ever see nails that size in Nazareth?” “Hey, you’re a carpenter; did you make that thing?”

You’d have expected that from the Pharisees. You’d have expected it from the crowd. Even the mocking of the soldiers isn’t surprising. But from the thieves? Crucified men insulting a crucified man? That’s like two men with nooses on their necks ridiculing the plight of the third on the platform; or two POWs before a firing squad taunting each other’s misfortune. Could anyone be blinder? Could anyone be more vile? No wonder these guys were on the cross. Rome deemed them worthy of an ugly torture. Their only value to society was to serve as a public spectacle. Strip them naked so all will know that evil cannot hide. Nail their hands so all will see that the wicked have no strength. Post them high so all will tell their children, “That’s what happens to evil men.” Every muscle in their body screams for relief. Nails pulse fire through their arms. Legs contort and twist seeking comfort. But there’s no comfort on a cross. Yet even the pain of the spikes won’t silence their spiteful tongues. These two will die as they lived – attacking the innocent. But in this case, the innocent doesn’t retaliate.

The man they mocked wasn’t much to look at. His body was whip-torn flesh yanked away from the bone. His face was a mask of blood and spit; eyes puffy and swollen. “King of the Jews” was painted over his head. A crown of thorns had pierced his scalp. His lip was split. Maybe his nose was bleeding, or a tooth was loose. The man they mocked was half-dead. The man they mocked was beaten. But the man they mocked was at peace. “Father, forgive them, because they don’t know what they are doing.” (Luke 23:34)

After Jesus’ prayer, one of the criminals began to shout insults at him: “Aren’t you the Christ? Then save yourself and us.” (vs. 39) The heart of this thief remained hard. The presence of Christ crucified meant nothing to him. Jesus is worthy of ridicule, so the thief ridicules. And he expects his chorus to be harmonized from the cross on the other side of Jesus. But it isn’t. It’s challenged, instead. “You should fear God! You are getting the same punishment he is. We are punished justly, getting what we deserve for what we did. But this man has done nothing wrong.” (v. 40-41) Unbelievable. The same mouth that cursed Christ now defends Christ. What happened? What’s he seen since he’s been on the cross? Did he witness a miracle? Did he hear a lecture? Was he read a treatise on the trinity? No, none of that. According to Luke, all he heard was a prayer – a prayer of grace. But that was enough. Something happens to a person who stands in the presence of God. And something happened to that thief.

Read his words again. “We are punished justly, getting what we deserve…. But this man has done nothing wrong.” That’s the core of the gospel in one sentence. The essence of eternity through the mouth of a felon: I’m wrong; Jesus is right. I’ve failed; Jesus hasn’t. I deserve to die; Jesus deserves to live. The thief knew precious little about Jesus, but what he knew was precious indeed. He knew that an innocent man was dying an unjust death with no complaint on his lips. And if Jesus can do that, perhaps he thought, he just might be who he says he is. So the thief asks for help: “Jesus, remember me when you come into your kingdom.” The heavy head of Christ lifts and turns, and the eyes of these two meet. What Jesus sees is a naked man, and I don’t mean in terms of clothes. I mean in terms of charades. He has no cover. No way to hide. His title? Scum of the earth. His achievement? Death by crucifixion. His reputation? Criminal. His character? Depraved until the last moment. Until the final hour. Until the last encounter. Until now.

Tell me, what has this man done to warrant help? He’d wasted his life. I mean, who’s he to beg for forgiveness? He publicly scoffed at Jesus. What right does he have to pray this prayer? The same right we have to pray our prayer. You see, that’s you and me on the cross. Naked, desolate, hopeless and estranged. That’s us. That’s us asking, “In spite of what I’ve done, in spite of what you see, is there any way you could remember me when we all get home?” We don’t boast. We don’t produce our checklists. Any sacrifice appears silly when placed before God on a cross.

It’s more than we deserve. But we’re desperate. So we plead, as have so many others – the cripple at the pool; Mary at the wedding; Martha at the funeral; the demoniac at Geresene; Nicodemus at night; Peter on the sea; Jairus on the trail; Joseph at the stable. And every other human being who has dared to stand before the Son of God and admit his or her need. We, like the thief, have one more prayer. And we, like the thief, pray. And we, like the thief, hear the voice of grace. Today you will be with me in paradise. And we, like the thief, are able to endure the pain knowing he’ll one day take us home.

You can put that one on your checklist.

Grace,

Randy

Forgiven

Forgiven
Forgiven - Audio/Visual 

Then Peter came to Jesus and asked, "Lord, how many times should I forgive my brother when he sins against met? Up to seven times? Jesus answered, "I tell you not seven times, but seventy-seven times. (Matt. 18:21-22)

In Ernest Hemingway’s short story, The Capital of the World, he tells about a young man who had wronged his father and had then run away to the city of Madrid to become a bullfighter. Out of great love and compassion for his son, the father took out an ad in the Madrid newspaper which read, “Paco, meet me at the Hotel Montana, Tuesday at noon. All is forgiven. Papa.” At the time, “Paco” was a pretty common name in Spain. So, when the father got to the hotel, he found 800 young men waiting for their fathers. We all long for forgiveness. We want to be able to forgive, and to be forgiven. But why is it so hard? Well, if it’s any consolation, it wasn't any easier for Jesus’ disciples, either.

In the text, Peter – playing the role of spokesman for the disciples – steps forward and plops the problem of forgiveness right there at Jesus’ feet. Maybe he thinks he’s pushing the outer limits of forgiveness. Maybe he thinks he’s pushing the envelope. But whatever he thinks, he comes to Jesus and says, “Lord, when somebody hoses me, how many times should I allow that to happen before I stop forgiving them? Seven times?” The Rabbinic teaching of the day said that when someone wronged you, you should forgive them up to three times, and then you could stop forgiving. So, to be on the safe side, or maybe on the pious side, Peter doubles the number and adds one for good measure. Jesus' response is startling. “No,” he says. “Not seven times. Seventy-seven times.” Now the literal Greek in the text can be translated either seventy-seven or seventy times seven, which would be 490. But we’re missing the point if we think that Jesus was talking about a literal number. What Jesus was talking about is grace.

It’s a mistake if we try to understand forgiveness in a clinical way. Because if we try to understand grace (which is at the heart of forgiveness) by dissecting the law, we’re going to miss it altogether. Grace can best be understood by way of a story, or an example. So, Jesus explains the grace of forgiveness to the disciples by telling them a parable. It’s a simple, straight-forward story that doesn’t require a rocket scientist, biblical scholar, or even a great theologian to understand. And therein lies part of the difficulty. It’s a story about a king and his servants. You see, this king had loaned his servants some money and it was time to call in the loans. Now, servant A had run up an unbelievable tab, e.g., about $2.25 billion. And the point of the parable was that this was such an enormous sum that it would have been impossible for the servant to repay. So, the king chooses to cut his losses and orders Servant A, including his wife and kids, into slavery and puts the servant’s house up for sale.

The servant begs for mercy. He’s trying to buy time, and he’s hoping that the king will cut him some slack. So, he literally pleads for his life. And then the most unexpected, unbelievable thing happens. The king doesn't just give him a little extra time, or even cut him some slack. He totally forgives the debt. He cancels it in its entirety. The servant and his family are off the auction block. They’re debt-free!

Now, put yourself in that servant's shoes for a minute. How would you feel at that moment? How’d you leave the palace? You’d be ecstatic, right? Like when somebody lets you merge into traffic, aren't you more likely to return the favor to another driver? Kind of pay it forward? But that’s the problem with this servant. After all of that forgiveness, he leaves as if nothing’s happened when servant B arrives. Servant B owes servant A the princely sum of about $6,800.00 by today’s standards. And like a scene right out of The Godfather, servant A puts down his violin case and starts choking servant B saying, “I’m going to break your kneecaps unless you pay up.” Servant B begs for mercy, using the identical words that servant A used with the king. But this time there’s no mercy. Servant A has servant B thrown into debtor's prison until he can work off the debt. Nice guy. But the hills have eyes. Some of the other servants see what servant A does to servant B, and they squeal to the king. And for the second time, servant A is called on the king's carpet. But where, once before, the king had gone from loan shark to Mr. Generosity, the king’s pity has changed to anger as he lowers the boom and sends servant A to be tortured in prison.

Although the story’s over for servants A and B, it’s not over for Peter and the disciples, and it’s not over for us. Because Jesus says at the conclusion of the parable that “Unless you and I forgive our brothers and sisters from the heart, we are going to wind up just like servant A.” You see, this is a parable about us and our relationship with God, and our relationships to each other in terms of forgiveness. Consider how God has forgiven the debt that we’ve run up! It’s a LOT bigger than $2.25 billion. Our sin has run up a tab totaling eternal death and infinite separation from God, i.e., hell. Those are the consequences of the debt we owe. Yet God in his unfathomable love and grace has canceled our sin debt through the life, death and bodily resurrection of Jesus Christ. He has totally forgiven that debt in its entirety. “I – yes I alone – am the one who blots out your sins for my own sake and will never think of them again.” (Isaiah 43:25) And not only that, but you and I come out on the other side with the gift of eternal life. Now that’s grace.

In 1935, Fiorello LaGuardia, then Mayor of New York City, visited a night court in the poorest ward of the city. He relieved the judge for the evening and took the bench himself. A case came up where a grandmother had been arrested for stealing bread to feed her grandchildren. LaGuardia said, “You’re guilty, and I’ve got to punish you. Ten dollars or ten days in jail.” And then LaGuardia pulled out a $10 bill from his pocket and threw it in his hat. He then fined everybody in the courtroom for living in a city where grandmothers have to steal bread to feed their grandchildren. They passed the hat and the woman left the courthouse that evening not only having her fine paid, but with $47.50 in her pocket. Now, don't you think it’s more likely than not that she left that courtroom in a spirit of forgiveness; a greater probability that she would show mercy to those whom she met?

People are going to do us wrong. And some of them are going to come to us and ask us to forgive them. Granted, some of those people are going to be pretty awful – having done some pretty horrible things to us. And we think that most of them, if not all of them, don't deserve to be forgiven. So, we’re confronted with a choice. Are we going to seize on the pain? Are we going to seize on the pride and withhold forgiveness? If so, Jesus says we’re just like servant A, and we’re going to wind up in prison – a prison of anger, hatred, depression and guilt. And it’s a prison that we build ourselves.

God really does have this obsessive thing about forgiveness. So much so that he requires it. He orders it. And just like any other mandate in Scripture, forgiveness is primarily commanded for our own good. Because God knows. He knows that you and I will never really be healed; we will never really move toward wholeness; we will never really get on with our lives until we are able to let go of the resentment; until we can give up gaining revenge and forgive. Forgiveness is not a feeling; it’s a choice. Fortunately, what God orders, the Holy Spirit empowers. The mistake we make a lot of times is that we look at who the person is who’s wronged us and what they’ve done. But the parable reminds us that that’s a mistake. When we’ve been wronged, we need to look at who God is and what He’s done for us. “OK, so how far do I have to go with this forgiveness thing?” I don’t know. How far has God gone with you? “But aren’t there limits?” I don’t know. What are the limits to God's grace? You see, it’s all about mercy and grace, and grace says, “I won't give him what he deserves; I will forgive him.”

In fact, this forgiveness thing is so important that it could permanently ruin the “Lord's Prayer” for you. Go to Matthew 6, and look at verse 12. Right in the middle of the Lord's Prayer is a phrase that you and I, if we’re not careful, mindlessly pray when we say it: "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." But have you honestly thought about what you’re asking God to do there? In fact, by the time we get to verse 12 we just want to go silent, or maybe mumble hoping that God won’t hear. Right? Here’s what I mean.

Simon Wiesenthal was a Nazi prisoner-of-war. One day, as Wiesenthal's prison detail was taking out the trash from the hospital for German casualties, a nurse approached him. “Are you a Jew?” she asked hesitantly, then signaled him to accompany her. Apprehensive, Wiesenthal followed her up a stairway and down a hallway until they reached a dark, musty room where a lone soldier lay, covered in bandages. White gauze completely masked the man's face, with openings cut out for only his mouth, nose and ears. The nurse disappeared, closing the door behind her, to leave the young prisoner alone with the soldier. The wounded man was an SS officer, and he summoned Wiesenthal so that he could make a deathbed confession. “My name is Karl,” said a raspy voice that came from somewhere behind the bandages. “I must tell you of this horrible deed; tell you because you are a Jew.”

Karl began his story by reminiscing about his Catholic upbringing and his childhood faith, which he lost while in the Hitler Youth Corp. Three times, as Karl tried to tell his story, Wiesenthal pulled away as if to leave. But each time the officer reached out to grab his arm with a white, nearly bloodless hand. He begged him to listen. Karl explained that in a certain town abandoned by the retreating Russians, Karl's unit stumbled upon a booby-trap that killed 30 of his soldiers. As an act of revenge, the SS rounded up 300 Jews, herded them into a three-story house, doused it with gasoline, and fired grenades at it. Karl and his men encircled the house, their guns drawn to shoot anyone who tried to escape. “I saw a man with a small child in his arms. His clothes were afire. By his side stood a woman, doubtless the mother of the child. With his free hand, the man covered the child's eyes, and then he jumped into the street. Seconds later the woman followed. Then from the other windows fell burning bodies. We shot. Oh God.” Karl went on to describe other atrocities, but he kept circling back to the scene of that young boy with the black hair and dark eyes falling from a building who was used as target practice for the SS rifles.

“I am left here with my guilt,” he concluded at last. “In the last hours of my life, you are with me. I do not know who you are. I know only that you are a Jew, and that is enough. I know that what I have told you is terrible. In the long nights while I have been waiting for death, time and time again, I have longed to talk about it to a Jew and beg forgiveness from him. Only I didn't know whether there were any Jews left. I know what I am asking is almost too much for you, but without your answer I cannot die in peace.” Simon Wiesenthal, an architect in his early 20's, now a prisoner dressed in a shabby uniform marked with a yellow Star of David, felt the crushing burden of his race bearing down upon him. He stared out the window at the sunlit courtyard. He looked at the eyeless heap of bandages lying in the bed. He watched a fly buzzing around the dying man's body, attracted by the smell. “At last I made up my mind,” Wiesenthal writes. “And without a word I left the room.”

How far are we willing to go with this forgiveness business? We’ve been hurt. We’ve been wounded. In little ways. Sometimes in catastrophic ways. And deep down inside, our gut tells us that there’s got to be a limit. So, we play church because we say we know Jesus, and that we’ve surrendered our lives to him. Well then, please forgive me. Forgive me for asking, “What difference will playing church make the next time you and I run into servant B?” There’s someone who needs to hear us say, “I forgive you.” Will you?

Grace,

Randy

Hero

Hero
Hero - Audio/Visual 

Then the angel of the Lord came and sat beneath the great tree at Ophrah, which belonged to Joash of the clan of Abiezer. Gideon son of Joash was threshing wheat at the bottom of a winepress to hide the grain from the Midianites. The angel of the Lord appeared to him and said, “Mighty hero, the Lord is with you!” … “Pardon me, my lord,” Gideon replied, “but how can I save Israel?” (Judges 6:11-12, 15)

Gideon was a farmer who really liked being a farmer. He had no desire to be anything more than Old McDonald. He didn’t have political or financial ambitions, and he didn’t dream of becoming the next George S. Patton. But God knew Gideon’s potential, and he had a very different plan for Gideon’s life which, in this case, did not include putting a Bible in every hotel room. Gideon is a story, however, of how God made a hero out of a very ordinary person during a period in Israel’s history called the “judges,” which followed the deaths of their previous leaders, Moses and Joshua.

The period of the judges, however, was one of the lowest points in Israel’s history. In fact, the book of Judges records seven “cycles,” spanning about 300 years, documenting Israel’s downward spiral. These cycles would begin with disobedience, bondage and misery. Suffering, the people would cry out to God to rescue them from their oppressors. God would then raise up a judge to call the people back to him. Result? Repentance, deliverance, rest and revival. But just when life was getting a little easier, back into compromise and disobedience the people would go. And with each cycle, Israel sank lower than it had previously sunk before.

This is the setting in which Gideon’s story takes place. Gideon was one of these local judges raised up by God to deliver a localized group of Israelites from a group of people known as the Midianites and the Amalekites. The Midianites were a nomadic people who would wait until the Israelites were ready to harvest their crops and then would come swooping down to steal their produce and herds, while simultaneously destroying everything else in their path. This went on for seven long years and it was getting really old. So, the people cried out to God for help. Enter Gideon.

Now, Gideon’s not exactly the epitome of strength and courage here. In fact, he’s hiding down in a winepress threshing wheat. Normally, the Israelites used an out-in-the-open, flat place to thresh the wheat so that the prevailing winds would blow away the chaff. But here’s Gideon – hiding in a winepress under a tree, threshing wheat with a stick. Not exactly Superman. He’s a defeated, discouraged man who’s filled with doubts and fears – both physically and spiritually.

Two things contributed to Gideon’s gloomy outlook: bitterness and timidity. Gideon lived a life of frustration, and was bitter because God hadn’t come through for him. Gideon also felt like he had nothing to offer to improve his circumstances. Just look at what he says: “But Lord, how can I deliver Israel? Just look! My clan is the weakest in Manasseh, and I am the youngest in my family.” (Judges 6:15) In other words, “Look, God, you’ve got the wrong guy here.” And like Gideon, we’ve all faced times of bitterness and disappointment, hiding from the enemy and thrashing around in the winepress of life. So what changed Gideon? A personal encounter with God.

Like Gideon, we all need reassurance from God that we’re doing the right thing, don’t we? And God provided his assurance when Gideon needed it the most. It all began with Gideon’s personal encounter with God through his angel: The LORD is with you, Mighty Warrior. Warrior? Gideon? Really? Yes, really. But it’s one thing to meet God in the secrecy of your winepress, and another thing altogether to stand up for God in the middle of an enemy camp. So, where do you start? Well, Gideon started at home. Even though he was still fearful, he was willing to take a risk in his own backyard. And his actions inspired others to go with him and remove idols that had been erected in the city, even idols that were in his Dad’s backyard. In other words, Gideon’s risk-taking inspired others to move out in faith.

Having cleaned up the mess at home, Gideon issued a call to arms and all of Israel responded. But it’s one thing for a farmer boy to say he’s going to lead an army into battle, and quite another to actually do it – especially when there’s 135,000 bad guys. And so our hero has a little chat with God. “Tell you what, God. If this is what you really want me to do, you’re gonna have to give me some sorta sign. So, here’s what we’re gonna do. I’m gonna put my Uggs (Judges 6:37 – wool fleece) outside the tent tonight, OK? And if tomorrow morning the ground is dry and my Uggs are wet, then I’m your guy.” Sure enough, the next morning when he got out of bed, he could squeeze enough water out of his Uggs to fill a bowl, despite the fact that the ground all around was bone-dry. Skeptic, or timid that he was, Gideon remained unconvinced. So, our hero tried it once again. “I don’t want to be annoying or anything, God, but let’s try it the other way ‘round. I’ll leave my Uggs out again tonight, OK? And in the morning, if the ground is wet and my Uggs are dry then I’ll really know that I’m your man.” So, he gets up the next morning and, sure enough, the ground is soaked and his Uggs are dry. “Hmm. I guess God’s serious.”

God’s will can be a very mysterious thing at times. Knowing what he wants us to do, and what we should wait on him to do, is hard to balance sometimes. And Gideon was having this same trouble. He wanted to be sure of God’s will before he led these men into battle, so he set up this little test with God. In reality, however, this experiment with his Uggs, so to speak, was about Gideon’s own fears and doubt and timidity; Gideon already knew God’s will – he just needed reassurance. And for whatever reason, God went along with Gideon’s little game. God was so good to Gideon, and he’s good to us, too. We should always make sure that we’re in God’s will as best we can, and God provides us with the Holy Spirit to assist us. Personally, rather than using the Uggs method, I use the Stack Up test, as in “How do things stack up?” If several good reasons can be stacked up, or together for making a particular decision, it’s usually the right thing for me to do. But that’s just me, and you may have your own method.

Regardless, having clearly determined the will of God, Gideon becomes a challenger. Gideon is psyched now. God had told him that he’d lead the Israelites to a great victory over the Midianites, and then God confirmed it through that little Uggs test. So, Gideon calls for all the able-bodied men in the area to join him and 32,000 able-bodied show up. He looks out at the sea of soldiers and thinks, “Wow, maybe we can pull this one off after all.” And God says, “Not so fast, Gideon. There’s too many of you.” Now wait. Too many men? How can you have too many men going into battle against an army of 135,000? But God wanted this to be a God thing, not a man thing, as God explains: “You have too many warriors, and when they win they’re going to think they did it all by themselves. So, tell them that whoever’s afraid can go back home.” (Judges 7:2) Terrific, but Gideon gets up and says, “OK. Here’s what God says: ‘All you chickens can leave.’” And just like that, 22,000 turn and run.

And while Gideon is doing the math and trying to get his head around what just happened, God says, “Still too many, Gideon. Tell the men to whet their whistle down at the river, and pay attention to the ones who lap like a dog versus those who kneel down to get a drink.” There were 300 lappers. “That’s it,” God said. “With those 300 men I will deliver Midian’s entire army over to you.” Really? 300? Against 135,000? That’s 450:1 odds. “You’re kidding me, right God?”

Now, at this point, I’m pretty sure that Gideon wasn’t all that convinced of the wisdom of God’s plan. So, God told him that if he didn’t believe it to sneak down to the enemy’s camp and do a little eavesdropping. So, Gideon being Gideon, he and an aid snuck into enemy territory at night and overheard two guys talking around a campfire: “You know, Joe, I had the strangest dream last night. I dreamed that a loaf of barley bread came rolling down the hill into our camp and flattened us.” “That’s not a good thing, Fred. Call me crazy, but that can only mean one thing: Gideon and his men are going to wipe us out!” Really? He got that from a dream about a loaf of bread? But I digress.

Wisely, Gideon took the dream, and its interpretation, as a sign from God and went back to camp to rally the troops. Oh, one other thing. God’s choice of weaponry to conquer an army the size of Escondido? Trumpets, Coleman lanterns and flower pots. The rest, as they say, is history. And God’s looking for Gideons today – men and women of faith who’re willing to step out and do great things for God. Men and women who don’t forget about God, and realize that he uses ordinary people in extraordinary ways – even in the face of insurmountable odds.

Looking back on the story, the steps in Gideon’s victory are pretty easy to trace: he had a promise to believe; a vessel to break; a lamp to burn; and a trumpet to blow. None of these things were incredibly difficult to do, and most of the stuff he found lying around in his garage. Likewise, there are simple things we can do that God will bless: pray, read the Bible, attend church, and share our faith. Remember, God can do a lot with a little. God loves working through the few, and you may be among the few at your job, or in your family, or maybe even in your church who’ve come out of the winepress of life to face the challenges of the open plains with the enemy starring you in the face. But for the first time in seven long years, Israel had homes, and crops, and horses and camels that weren’t destroyed or taken by the enemy.

The coronavirus has people concerned about their health, and scrambling for their spiritual lives. They’re looking for a first responder to lead them to the antidote of the cross. Will you be their hero? Will you answer the alarm? You can, you know. God says so. He says that “… we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.” (Rom. 8:37)

Grace,

Randy